Listen To My New Story! Horse Update and 252 Pages!
- vickyearle
- 2 days ago
- 6 min read
Audi's World and Rizzmo are now at Woodbine Racetrack!
This is a short clip of them before they left the barn where they've been doing some preliminary training in a (wonderful) arena.
As you can see, Audi is a bit restless. He was more than ready to start training at the track. We hope to visit Woodbine soon and have some videos to share with you.
I'm delighted that I've been accepted as a member of Crime Writers of Canada!
The story I wrote for the March meeting of Uxbridge Writers' Circle is not a mystery or a crime story, but occurs on St Patrick's Day (our meeting was on March 17).
Here is an audio recording of my story, but I've also copied it below.
This is the first time I've attempted to record a reading. Let me know what you think!
It was a 'word challenge', and the words I had to use are: shillelagh; casino; arrow; quagmire; ceilidh; malbec; bison; and dough.
I hope you enjoy listening to it/reading it.
The Joke’s On Me
Everyone, it seems to me, pretends they have Irish heritage when St Patrick’s Day comes around, and that includes Bosworth. He couldn’t be more English-Canadian if he tried, but on every St Patrick’s Day, he played the part of an Irishman.
His home was a converted barn. You might scoff, but don’t. The enormous barn was made of solid stone, the rafters were huge oak beams, the floor was real wood—none of this fake plastic stuff—and genuine art hung on the walls.
The open-plan concept meant it was perfect for entertaining, and St Patrick’s Day was when Bosworth pulled out all the stops. As usual, I was invited to the traditional ceilidh he held every year. This year, I was accompanied by Simone, who was skeptical about the whole affair. He said green didn’t suit him, but I convinced him that Bosworth would not let us in if we weren’t wrapped in green.
The driveway was long but clear of snow. We’d had a March storm a couple of days beforehand. Simone was shocked to see bison standing in a paddock, munching on hay. I explained that Bosworth was a lover of everything big—big homes, big cars, big parties, big animals, and so on.
A large arrow with ‘parking’ written above it directed us to a frozen patch of ground cleared of snow. A young person dressed in green quilted jacket and pants waved us into a parking spot.
The fiddler was already playing as we walked into the barn filled with green people. Thousands of twinkling lights hung like stars above us.
“Mason, you’re here at last!” Bosworth bellowed. I didn’t know what the fuss was about because I always turned up on time. He strode towards us, brandishing his shillelagh with one hand and holding up a glass of whisky in the other. This stick was his favourite Irish prop, but it looked like a dangerous weapon to me.
I introduced Simone, and Bosworth was thrilled to provide him with a personal conducted tour of his castle. His home felt like a castle. It just lacked a moat.
I seized the opportunity to head for the bar. The drinks did not simply comprise green beer with shamrocks afloat; there was a tremendous selection. Bosworth could be relied upon to offer the best wine. As a guest, you were to enjoy his hospitality, and he would be offended if you turned up with a bottle. I chose a Malbec. It would be the best one in the world. It was an inky, dark purple and full-bodied, and delicious. It was even more pleasant because I’d convinced myself it was full of antioxidants.
The fiddler was joined by a singer who had been flown over from Ireland by Bosworth for his party. I was tapping my foot and sipping my wine when Simone bumped into me. The look on his face made me choke on my mouthful of wine.
“Mason, I have to leave.”
“Why? What on earth for?”
“Now. It’s a matter of life or death.” He grabbed my arm.
“Mason!” Bosworth was within a yard of us, waving his shillelagh around. A couple of curious people turned, but seeing Bosworth with a large glass of whisky, they resumed their conversation. “What are you playing at?”
“What do you mean?”
“Bringing a cop here. My god, man.”
“I don’t understand what the problem is.”
Two men appeared, grabbed Simone and me, and took us up the stairs that led to what was once the hayloft. I hadn’t been up there before. I was astounded to find it had been converted into a casino.
“I found your so-called friend snooping around up here.”
“I expect he was just curious.”
“I don’t give a damn. He’s a cop, and I don’t have anything to do with cops. Tie them up. I have a party to host, and I’m not missing it. I’ll deal with you two later.”
“I didn’t know you were a cop,” I said to Simone.
“I’m undercover most of the time and fly under the radar.”
“You told me you were a teacher.”
“I have to be careful what I tell people, even my friends.”
I turned my focus on to how the hell we were going to get out of this quagmire we had landed in.
“I’m glad he didn’t hit us with that stick thing,” Simone said.
“That would be the least of our worries. He’s angry, and I sense we’re in serious trouble. Why is he so concerned about cops? You know, don’t you?”
“I recognize him. Where do you think he gets the dough for all this?”
“I’ve never thought about it. He just hires me as the storyteller. It’s all part of his plans for the ceilidh. I do it every year. I don’t know anything more, other than he’s rich.”
“His reaction has proved my hunch is right. He’s known as the Golden Eagle because he sees everything and is a deadly predator.”
“I had no idea. You’re the cop. How do we get out of here?” Sweat bubbled up on my forehead, and I clenched my teeth, which gave me an instant headache.
“I’ll think of something.”
“How come you’re so calm?”
“Because I’ll think of something. You can try too.”
“They didn’t tie us up very well. I might be able to get one hand free.”
“See, we’ll be fine.”
“But, assuming we get free of these ropes, how do we escape? Don’t tell me, we’ll think of something.”
“Exactly. You’re getting the hang of this.”
I managed to get both hands free and untie my feet, and then free Simone. Just as he stood up, and I was thinking something fishy was going on, Bosworth burst into the casino with a bright red face, laughing raucously.
“Well done, only six minutes!” He doubled over and laughed even louder. He then strode over to me, patted me on the back and said, “That has the making of a good story, right?”
I was struck speechless.
“Your face was priceless,” he added while tears streamed down his red cheeks. “Go and have a few drinks and I’ll show the video in a bit. Cheers!” He raised his glass. “And thanks, Simone, for being such a good sport.”
“No problem.”
After Bosworth had disappeared, I glared at Simone and said, “Yes, it was a problem. I could have died of a heart attack.”
“But you didn’t. Bosworth told me he’s trying to be Irish through and through, especially the humour. He thought this would be a great lark.”
That’s why I don’t celebrate St Patrick’s Day in Canada anymore. Instead, I fly over to Ireland for a few days and visit my grandparents. Family and friends drop by to hear my grandfather play his fiddle and me make tunes on my tin whistle. There’s lots of laughter, but the joke is never on me.
Vicky Earle Copyright 2026
Independent Bookstore Day
Blue Heron Books, Uxbridge, has invited me to participate in their Independent Bookstore Day celebration again this year at the bookstore on April 25. I will be there from 10 am until noon. Various authors will be present during the day. It's a fun event and a great bookstore.
I hope to see you there!
Meg Sheppard Mystery Series: Book 7!
I have written over 71,000 words (252 pages) of the first draft.
A jockey is dead, his body is missing, and the setting is illegal.
I'm having fun writing it (I just need to find more time!) and I hope you'll enjoy reading it when it's published.
Thank you for reading my post.
Please share.
How lovely to be read to!!!! And congratulations on being a member of the crime writers of Canada 🇨🇦